


can you feel your heart burning

by IvyOnTheHolodeck



Series: kiss kiss purge your mycobiome [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Hanahaki Disease, Heist, Other, Peter Nureyev Alias Generator (Penumbra Podcast), Pining, be gay do crimes, first person POV, no beta we die like Hyperion mayors, not season three compliant, post season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-12-24 06:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21094706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: Peter Nureyev has been many things - teenage revolutionary, thief without a name, savior of Mars, one-night stand.Now he’s a man with a secret he’ll take to the grave. And unless Juno Steel can figure out what’s going on, that’ll be really goddamn soon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings.

My first clue is couched in an accusation. 

Buddy and Jet usher Rita inside the ship, their motions just this side of casual. So Nureyev - or whoever the hell he is now - warned our colleagues of our history. Or maybe my expression is just that obvious.

The inner hatch closes. We're alone in the arid Martian night. 

And Nureyev - god, Nureyev looks - 

"I didn't expect to see you here," I say.

Nureyev's mouth tugs sideways. "Your bewildered appraisal rather indicates so."

"Or ever," I add, because I'm an idiot. "Thought you'd be back up there, plucking stars from the sky."

"Goodness, detective, what on earth would I do with a star? There are far too many as it is, and you need scarcity to turn a profit. Anyway, stars are terribly gaudy - can't pair them with anything. Mercurian opals, on the other hand…" He fingers the glittering gem dangling from his earlobe.

Some things never change. "That what Buddy wants us for, a jewel heist?" We could have stayed in Hyperion for crimes that small. If I had a cred for every rock plucked off a distracted socialite-

"Nothing so prosaic, I assure you. Come, she'll be waiting for us." Nureyev slides off the RUBY7 like the ripple of a heatwave against the sand. He beckons over his shoulder as his fingers fly over the keypad. Pistons hiss, and the ship's ramp retracts, folding inward. I scramble to pull myself inside the garage before it slams shut behind me. The thief slips through the door, not bothering to check whether I made it in. Not a great sign. 

"I - wait, Nureyev-"

The thief pauses, too abrupt to pass it off as casual. He holds the doorframe, his knuckles fluorescing under the black light, and makes a wretching noise I last heard when Mick mistook rat poison for sour candy.

"Are you-"

Nureyev holds up a hand. He takes a deep breath, straightening his spine.

"Hairball?" I ask.

The smile he gives me is as tight as his blouse. "Unfortunately, the sand here aggravates my lungs. A pity that so much of Mars seems bent on letting me know I'm unwanted."

"Listen, Nur-"

"My name," he interrupts, "is Julius Chase. I would prefer you to address me as such."

So that gift's been rescinded. I mutter an acknowledgment, wondering how soon into the ship tour they'll show me the toilets. I've got all the self-loathing and nausea of a bad hangover. 

The thief tsks. "Oh detective, don't look so glum. I'll be out of your hair before you know it." 

And out of my life, too. Figures that I'd find him just to lose him again. "Great," I mutter.

"Glad that's settled. Come along."


	2. Chapter 2

I almost miss the second clue. In my defense, when Nureyev wants to hide something, you'd need a THEIA Spectrum to catch it. Which I don't have anymore. Which is fine.

Buddy sends me to fetch him for dinner. I wouldn't blame him if he were trying to duck out - Rita's on cooking duty again, and she likes to get creative. 

I brace myself and press the buzzer next to his door. We haven't spoken much since we left orbit. Julius Chase doesn't have much taste for small talk. Rita says he spends most of his time scouring academic journals and first person accounts of the history of the Outer Rim. She's cracked a few dozen firewalls for him by now. 

"Come in," he calls.

The door lifts with a hiss, opening onto a cramped explosion of gilt and silk. Nureyev's room is disorganized the way a stream star's bun is messy - deliberately, with an eye for authenticity. It's a testament to how long I've lived in a pigsty that I can spot a false one at a glance.

Nureyev leans over his boudoir, lining his lips in a shade of blue more violent than every member of the Triad combined. "Ah, detective. How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

"Us?"

"Why certainly. I'd never be such a cad as to leave a distinguished matron of the galaxy out of the conversation." Nureyev waves an elegant hand at the corner of the room, where a spray of greenery hunkers under a heatlamp.

"The plant." 

"Show some respect, detective. Dahlia's a living testament to life's tenacity among the stars. She's over two hundred years old."

"You named your rosebush Dahlia." I make my voice as dry as possible to hide the lump in my throat.

"Would you have preferred I'd chosen Gretchen? Or Honoria? She's the perfect houseguest. Asks for nothing but light, water, and the occasional antifungal spray." He gestures to the arsenal of spray bottles and boxes of fertilizer piled in a corner, under a painting I could swear was supposed to be hanging in the Museum of Colonized History. There's an array of gardening tools extensive enough to make the plant seem higher maintenance than Julian DiMaggio on a bender. More effort than I'd expect a thief to invest in something that would tie him down.

"Never took you for a sap, Nur- Chase," I say, aiming for casual and missing as badly as I've missed every shot since losing my eye.

"Whatever can you mean?" Nureyev gasps, laying a well-manicured hand over his heart. "Surely you don't mean to imply that our pseudonyms at the Oasis were my inspiration. It's charming that you think so highly of yourself, but I encourage you to consider which came first - the detective, or the rose."

"Are you saying you named me after your bush?"

"Not at all, merely suggesting that an ounce of humility can grant one a pound of wisdom."

I snort. "Come off it, Nureyev, you wouldn't know humility if it were wearing the crown jewels of Agmenthuthis."

"You mean, these jewels?"

"...Those are supposed to be on Neptune."

Nureyev tucks the tiara back into his jewelry box and closes it with a snap. "And you were supposed to be on a shuttle with me when I left Mars. I find reality rarely conforms to our expectations."

"Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No, you shouldn't have." His voice goes cold and sharp as a shiv in a meatlocker. "I am a collector of fine things, detective. I have neither time for broken promises nor people. Please refrain from recalling the events of that period again."

They do say the best fighters are those who know how to hit where it hurts. He brushes past me before I can gather myself enough to reply.

This is the part where, had I stuck around in Hyperion, I'd have slunk off to a bar and drunk until I wouldn't recognize my own face in the mirror. As it is, I drag myself back to my own room and stare at the ceiling. I hadn't been much looking forward to black licorice nachos anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

My third clue exonerates the best caterer this side of the asteroid belt. It all starts around an aluminum table bolted to the Carte Blanche's dining room floor.

"This operation doesn't have room for error," Buddy tells us, her good eye boring into me. "We need a scalpel, darling, not a mallet."

"I can be subtle." 

"Then why have you hidden your ability until now?" asks Jet.

"Hilarious, big guy."

"Shut up and listen," Vespa orders from the depths of her hoodie.

Buddy's mouth quirks up in a smile. "Rita's intel says our mark has privately boasted that he knows the origin of the CureMother. Our goal is to negotiate that information away from him."

"Hold on, you stole a case of the CureMother before our first job together," I say. "You can't steal something without knowing where it is."

"If that's your professional opinion, I can see why you gave up detective work," says Nureyev, folding his long fingers behind his head. I glare at him. It takes more effort than I'd like to look away. 

"We set up a fake transport company and won the contract to ship the briefcase of CureMother," Buddy says. "But that's the sort of trick that only works once, and we're going to need many more doses to test if we intend to reverse-engineer our own recipe."

"You're telling me you're retiring to take up pharmaceuticals?" I don't try to hide my incredulity. "Think you hired the wrong lady, the only drugs I know come in unlabeled bags."

"That's my job, dipshit," Vespa says. 

"I will help as well," the big guy says. "I have doctorates in chemical engineering on three different planets."

"Of course you do." I wish Rita were here, but no, she's busy teaching her new best friend the autopilot how to pirate her favorite streams. 

"Not retiring, Juno darling, just detouring. We owe Razzy some trouble, now we've built up a nest egg again."

Knowing Buddy, that egg would be the size of a small moon. I don't know how much she has tucked away in discreet banks across the system, but it's apparently enough to indulge in revenge. 

Her lips thin. "Razzy swindled me of my life savings like a common crook. It's time to remind him that we make for very _ uncommon _ enemies. He kicks over my sandcastle, I drown him in a tsunami." Softening, she reaches over and takes Vespa's hand. "Worse, he stole years of my time with the love of my life. For that, I will make him pay with interest."

"Aw, Bud," Vespa says, "I love your vengeful streak." They smile at each other.

The lump in my throat must be because the whole tableau is so disgustingly sappy. I look away before they can start kissing, just in time to catch Nureyev snapping his gaze away from me. He clears his throat. "Ah, the plan?"

Buddy shakes off her domestic bliss and nods. "Rita and Jet will hold the ship in geostationary orbit over our mark's mansion and monitor the system's traffic. Chase, you'll be tempting Barclay into trading the CureMother source location. Word is he has a taste for the one of a kind."

I scuff my boot on the scratched diamond-patterned flooring. Something in her description bothers me. Must be the similarity to the Li-Jones dynasty, though their collection involved "souvenirs" from people too dead to notice. I thought I'd never get the stink of formaldehyde out of my coat.

"Chase, you've seen our coffers. Offer up to fifteen percent, but convince him you're only authorized to promise five. Juno, you're his backup. Don't let anyone deposit a knife in his back while he's negotiating. While you two have him distracted, Vespa and I will crack into his vaults and liberate what we can. With any luck, we'll find the CureMother location before Barclay haggles us out of a small fortune."

"Hold on," I object. "Unless Barclay's security are completely incompetent, they'll be running thumbprint scans on us as we go in. Maybe you people have dodged the system, but the HCPD still have me in their database."

Vespa snorts. "Don't get your garters in a twist, Steel. I'll burn your fingerprints off first."

"Very funny."

~

"You could have told me she wasn't kidding," I grumble into my drink, flexing my stinging hands. A pair of giggling women brush past me, powdered in enough precious metal to keep every Old Town High kid clothed and fed for months. I slouch closer against the balustrade, grimacing at every sip of my fruit juice. Apparently my cover identity - Pearl Jameson, fading boxing champion - is a teetotaler. Buddy thinks she's a goddamn comedian. 

"I would encourage you to stop fidgeting, detective, you'll attract suspicion," Nureyev - sorry, _Nestor Byrde_ says over our secure comm channel.

I resist the urge to scratch at my earpiece disguised as an ear cuff. "Right, 'cause I'm the one drawing all the attention." If Nureyev's neckline plunged any lower he'd get brought up on public indecency charges. I can spot at least three party guests eying him like he's the next gold-wrapped truffle on the menu. Something ugly settles in my gut, and I don't even have the burn of a real drink to settle it. 

Parties like this set my teeth on edge - too many people to watch, no way of knowing who's carrying a weapon, music loud enough to drown out thought. At least when Cassandra used to drag me to her parents' events I could entertain us by popping those stupid champagne bubble balloons with cocktail umbrellas from across the room. 

"We're searching Barclay's chambers," Vespa reports through the comms. "Asshole doesn't keep his records in the usual spots."

"I have eyes on him," says Nureyev. From my vantage point, I watch him rise from his table by the dance floor and make his way toward a figure built like a Saturnian Moon-Crawler. I squint, trying to place my growing sense of unease. 

Nureyev corners Barclay under a swath of holographic streamers. He ignores Barclay's guards with the brazenness of those who believe danger is for scary streams and pumps Barclay's hand, every inch the toothless aide. "My dear sir, thank you ever so for throwing this scrumptious little shindig. I was positively titillated - titillated, I tell you - when my employer said she'd arranged for me to meet you here." Barclay says something I can't make out, and Nureyev gasps. "Oh, but surely you received our missive? Our admin would never have made such an egregious error. Nestor Annabelle Byrde, here to negotiate for just the tiniest smidgen of information on a topic my employer finds titillating. We're prepared to pay up front in the rarest of gems and-"

"Not interested," Barclay says loud enough to be heard through the comms. I know that voice.

"Oh, but surely-"

Nureyev chases after Barclay, cajoling, but I can't hear him over the roaring in my ears. For a moment I'm a scared little kid. I thought I'd escaped Elphias "The Connoisseur" Barclay when I was twelve years old.

"He's proving harder to tempt than anticipated," Nureyev says into the comm channel. From where I can see, he's positioned himself behind a large planter to conceal his words from the rest of the attendees.

"Nothing in his quarters," Vespa says, irritated. "What kind of megalomaniac doesn't keep his valuables in stupidly obvious places?"

"Chase," says Buddy, "try offering him something directly so he knows we aren't all talk. Do you have the miniature I showed you?"

"Captain Aurinko, you keep that painting locked away. How ever could I have gotten my hands on it?"

Buddy sighs. "Do you have it?"

"Yes," Nureyev admits. 

"Then try that. Maybe he prefers art to jewels."

"He likes art all right," I say. "It won't work."

"The painting is an original-"

"He doesn't collect paintings," I snap, my heart hammering. "He collects people. Scientists, writers, politicians." Dancers. "Buddy, goddamnit, this won't work. He doesn't want jewels, he wants faces for his menagerie."

"Are you telling me the source of the CureMother is a person?" Buddy's voice is tight and low as a tripwire.

I clench my teeth. "He won't want what we have to offer. We'll have to break into his menagerie and rescue the CureMother scientist."

"First rule of thieving, detective," Nureyev says. "The easiest way into a vault is by invitation." There's a click. An automated voice says, _User Julius Chase has disconnected._

Buddy says something in my ear - probably ordering me to report, or fall back, or be sensible, but there's no time. I take off along the balcony for the main staircase, sick to my stomach. I know what Nureyev's planning. I'm not going to let it happen. 

There are too many goddamn people here. I shoulder my way through, ignoring offended yelps and barreling my way down to the main floor. A waiter in a silver tuxedo tries to catch my sleeve, but I shake them off. What I wouldn't give for the THEIA's augmented sight right now. 

There - by the liquor fountain. Nureyev catches Barclay by the sleeve, the motion precise. He's traded Byrde's rounded shoulders and nervous energy for measured movements and a blade-sharp smile. He leans in to whisper in Barclay's ear. 

He's going to offer himself in exchange for the CureMother. Not as Julius Chase, but as Peter Nureyev, infamous nightmare of Brahma. 

I already almost lost one person to Barclay who meant the world to me. Like hell am I losing another. 

Can I pull this off? I'm so bad at bluffing that Rita set my comms' poker game age range to 6-10. And I haven't tried this particular con since I was nineteen years old...

I straighten my spine and throw my shoulders back, shifting my weight onto the balls of my feet. I picture Mick and Sasha squinting at me and loosen the muscles in my stomach and face. The persona fits imperfectly, like an old coat worn at the elbows and too tight across the bust. It'll have to do. 

No point in waiting. I stumble directly into Barclay. 

"Sorry, sorry," I laugh, pitching my voice half an octave higher as I brush off his doublet. "My compliments to the bartender, the drinks swept me off my feet."

Barclay inhales sharply. Jackpot. "It's you."

"Uh, you must have me mistaken for-"

"It is you!" Barclay exclaims, studying my face with greed. I can feel Nureyev fuming behind me, forgotten. "Benzaiten Steel. They told me you'd died a quarter of a century ago."

Here goes nothing. I paste on the galaxy's best smile, flashing teeth that haven't seen the light of day in decades. "What can I say, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO WHAT ABOUT MAN IN GLASS, HUH?? (Which I listened to AFTER writing this chapter, and then freaked out about for days and days...)
> 
> If you're enjoying this, please drop me a line! I've got midterms next week and could use the encouragement. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to ivekilledmonsters for their advice on writing dances! I've posted their tips on my tumblr, be sure to check it out!
> 
> Make sure to read the warnings in the end notes if that's a concern, since I projected a lot of my own uncomfortable dancing experiences onto Juno.

When you've been a private eye as long as I have, you get wary of clever solutions. Most come back to bite you eventually. 

Not all, though. Some come back to bite you immediately.

"A what?"

"A dance, Benzaiten!" Barclay claps me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. Must be tipsy, he doesn't strike me as the type to casually bang up his prizes. "Indulge an old man's whims. It would give me a chance to feel young again."

Give him a chance to test out the goods, more like. It makes sense that Barclay would want proof I can still dance worth a damn, after all the years of radio silence. "I'd hate to inconvenience your musicians-"

"With the fortune I'm paying them, they'd eat their instruments if I asked." He presses his comms into my hand, standing too close. It's a request the same way a mugging is a charitable donation.

In for a hoverbike, in for a spaceyacht. I request a couple songs and pass the comms back to Barclay.

Guests part before us as Barclay marches toward the dance floor, one hand tight around my wrist. I bite the inside of my mouth, forcing my strides to remain loose. It doesn't matter if this is how Ma used to tow me around. I am present. I'm at some stupid party in space, classic technorock ringing in my ears, and I am  _ not _ back in Oldtown.

I'd hoped Barclay would insist on leading, but he settles one meaty hand on my right shoulder. "I was surprised by your music choice, Benzaiten. Last I heard, you preferred ballet."

Ben did, sure, but I could never tell a soufflé from a plié. I laugh. "Come on, man, if you held everyone to their preteen aesthetics, we'd all be wearing way too much eyeliner." My heart twists - there it is, that was Ben's voice. I can't believe how long it took me to get it right. 

We used to switch places all the time. We were six when we realized we could fool Ma, eight when we learned we could fool everyone else. It came in handy. Ma couldn't get angry at Ben about his after-school dance classes if she thought he was around the house. Ben took my math tests so I wouldn't get held back, and I took care of the bullies who though the school ballet prodigy made for a soft target. 

The song I asked for starts up, and I take Barclay's free hand. He just about squeezes mine into a pulp. This is going to go great. "Have you done ballroom dancing before?"

"I've been told I'm a natural."

About as natural as Buddy's prosthetic eye. I feel sorry for all his past partners, who must have complimented him out of fear they'd get pulverized if they didn't. Barclay looks like someone grafted a chihuahua's head onto a pit bull's body, wispy white mustache drooping onto a neck rippling with artificial muscle. 

"This is a simple foxtrot. Two slow steps in a straight line, followed by a quick side step." I try stepping forward, leading the move with pressure on his hand and side, and get a faceful of chest. He moves back, too late. We manage the next step, but I nearly pull a muscle trying to get him to take the side step. I try again, this time counting the steps out loud, but he takes too long to move and we end up off the music.

Barclay scowls. "I will not be embarrassed in front of my guests, Benzaiten."

"C'mon, you're doing great." Yeah, that didn't sound convincing even to me. "Just follow the pressure of my hands."

"I cannot tell where you're going."

That's because he's not paying attention, the asshole. See, this was always the downside of switching places - Benten was famously  _ nice _ to people. He never let me live down the time I'd broken character and suplexed his gym teacher. I do my best to turn my clenched jaw into a grin. "My hands are an extension of my frame, which stays stiff, see? If you follow the pressure, you can tell where my body's - uhnf!"

Barclay crushes me against his chest, hands locking me in place. Every one of my muscles freeze.

"Much better," he says, and I can feel the words vibrate in his rib cage. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. Just go with it, Steel. For the job. To keep Nureyev safe. It's one dance.

I breathe through my nose and step forward, using my entire body to propel Barclay backward. It's awkward, and not even close to how dancing is supposed to go, but it works. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost convince myself that I'm not really there, that I'm watching someone else trapped against Barclay. 

"We have developed a small audience."

People never could stop from gawking at a shipwreck. "Nothing like a crowd of fans to, uh," oh hell what's a Benten phrase, "lift the palate." 

"I am not familiar with that saying."

"Martian colloquialism," I lie through my teeth, dragging us out of the path of a gawky pair of dilettantes. I manage to peel Barclay off me long enough for a spin, anything to get away from that wall of damp cloth, but he drags me back into place. 

Finally, finally, the music winds flares to a close, showers of confetti exploding above us. Years of practice getting out of headlocks help me slip out of Barclay's moist grasp, staggering back a few steps. "Whaddya know, you are a natural." I'm rattled enough that my voice drops out of Ben's cadence. I force it back up, brushing glittering paper squares off my shoulders. "Well, now that's over-"

"Over?" he asks as the next song starts up. My stomach sinks into my heels. Patience has never been my strong suit, and we've just scraped the bottom of the barrel. I won't make it through another dance like that, but I don't have a choice, I have to protect -

"Excuse me," a familiar voice simpers, "may I cut in?"

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Somehow, in the five minutes I've been frogmarched around the dance floor, Nureyev managed to change his accent, his wig, and his dress, though calling his new outfit a dress is like calling a handkerchief a bedsheet. It takes me a couple seconds to get my brain back online.

I'm not the only one paying attention. If Barclay's gaze roves any more he's going to rack up roaming charges. "For you, gorgeous, anytime."

Nureyev flutters his eyelashes. "Such a-"

"Gracious host," I interrupt, "thanks for the permission, see you later!" I grab Nureyev's arm and drag him back onto the dance floor. 

As soon as we're out of eyeshot, I glare at him. "The hell do you think you're doing?" We're drawing looks, so I pull him into a closed frame and lead us through a simple box step. 

"I," Nureyev hisses, "am attempting to ensure we get the right actor in position. Might I remind you which of us is the galactically renowned master of disguise, and which couldn't keep up the Dahlia Rose charade for ten minutes?"

"I'm not an idiot-"

"Oh, that  _ is  _ news-"

"So could you trust me to do my goddamn job?"

"Trust must be earned."

One of the benefits of a waltz is that you're supposed to stare over your partner's shoulder, which keeps you from doing stupid things like snarling at him or getting distracted by his shimmering cheekbones. I spin us once to scan for eavesdroppers, but the other guests are too hammered or high or horny to notice the lady dancing with the man in the getup that would make a Vixen blush. "Barclay's clingier than a jilted Venusian lover. Once he's got your scent, he'll do anything to keep his claws in you." I lead Nureyev through a promenade to give us both a clear view of where Barclay's speaking to one of his bodyguards. "He wouldn't hesitate to shout your name to the winds to bring you in."

"Since when are you an expert in character analysis, detective? For all we know, Barclay could be one of the flighty rich."

He wants proof? Releasing him into a one-handed hold, I turn off my earpiece. "My brother had to hide in the Oldtown sewers for two weeks to avoid Barclay's goons. We said he'd drowned." Ben had tried everything else - faking an injury, reporting Barclay to the HCPD, even siccing Ma on him. Nothing worked. I spin Nureyev in so that his back presses against my chest. Doing my damnedest to ignore the gauzy fringe of his dress's neckline fluttering against my jaw, I say under my breath, "Staging your own death is the only way to escape him. So since  _ I _ don't have an entire planet relying on the survival of my legacy,  _ I'm _ the one getting collected tonight."

"Ah," he says, the noise a little strangled. "Indeed." It's not acceptance, but at least he doesn't sound angry anymore. I return us to a closed frame, the toes of Nureyev's heels ghosting beside mine. We dance in silence for a minute before he says, "That's thoughtful of you, Juno."

"Yeah, well." I lead him through a spin instead of elaborating. He doesn't need to know the other half of my motivation. Maybe he'd been right to retract the gift of his name - hell, maybe I'd never deserved it in the first place - but the idea of Barclay adding 'Peter Nureyev' to his trophy case makes my blood boil.

"It must be hard, assuming your brother's persona."

That startles a laugh out of me. "Nah, he'd have loved this."

"Oh?"

"When we were kids, he made this masquerade mask out of sequins and feathers he found in the street. That thing probably carried a dozen strains of bird flu, but he insisted that when he met the person of his dreams at a dance, he needed to be in disguise or they'd take one look at his face and fall head over heels, and then how would he know if they 'truly loved him for his mind?'" I roll my eyes. I'm still getting used to remembering Benten with warmth instead of pain, but I think I like it. Seems like the kind of thing he'd want. 

"He sounds like quite the character."

"Yeah. Yeah, he was."

The song winds down, and I slide us into an open frame as we come to a stop. Nureyev squeezes my hands. "You're an excellent dancer."

"That makes two of us."

It slips out before I can think it through. Dammit, Steel, can't you spend one dance with the love of your life without spilling your feelings everywhere?

Nureyev raises an eyebrow, studying me. "There's an old Earth saying. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

I shrug, my heart in my throat. "Then I guess I have to hope we're both still fools."

He laughs at that, really laughs, and for a second I get a glimpse of that look that made a lady feel like he could take on the whole goddamn galaxy. The music kicks in again, slicker. A tango this time. "You know," he says, "Barclay has a reputation for jealousy, and we do want you getting collected."

The side of my mouth tugs up. "You saying we should put on a show?"

"Your lead," he returns with a smile sharp enough to cut your heart out.

What can I say? I grew up with a twin brother, I've got a competitive streak. I draw Nureyev into my arms and step into his space, my legs grazing his as we sweep across the dance floor. 

Most follows I've danced with have pushed back the first time, testing whether I can keep up. Nureyev isn't like that. He goes where I lead, smirking when I pull him into a spin that has him locking a leg behind my back. Trust is no more optional in dancing than in thievery, and I'm beginning to think I've won a little back.

I pull him into an elongated step that brings him to his knees, our faces inches apart. Under the sultry drape of his cologne, his breath smells like blood and chemicals. His gaze flickers down to my lips.

I almost drop him. My cheeks flame as I lead us back into a simpler step, his chuckles vibrating through the hand I have pressed to his back. "Don't try to distract me."

"Whatever could you mean?"

I turn us sharply, giving him my best unimpressed stare. "My dress gets heavier every time you have a free hand."

"You can't say I never give you nice things, Juno."

"Is robbing every other dancer blind your idea of keeping a low profile?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." In a move too fast for me to track, Nureyev tosses our hands so that he has the lead's position. He twists me around in one fluid motion, my back to his chest this time, so that I can see the dance floor around us. 

That… is a larger audience than I expected.

"They're far too busy ogling to notice. I must give them credit for having an eye for art." He unloops me, and somewhere in a series of turns I end up in the lead's position again, his arm curled around the back of my neck. "Besides, the weight of the jewels would ruin the drape of my gown."

"A gown needs to have fabric to drape."

"Are you complaining?"

"No," I admit, which makes him laugh again. 

I could dance with Nureyev forever, rolling my eyes every time I feel some new bauble drop into my pockets, but the musicians have other ideas. I dip Nureyev on the song's last flourish, waves of applause washing over us as we hold the position, my fingers splayed across the smooth skin of his back, his gaze burning into mine. 

"Benzaiten Steel, everyone!" Barclay announces, appearing from the crowd. I pull Nureyev to his feet. He squeezes my shoulder and melts away. "My newest ward."

More like his latest mistake. I square my shoulders and bow to the onlookers, resolve settling into place like body armor. I'm going to find the CureMother source. I'm going to get us both out of here. And then, if Nureyev's willing, I'm going to clear a space in the cargo bay and ask him for another dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not BELIEVE how many times I've rewritten this scene. I thought the couple years of ballroom dance experience under my belt would be enough, but stars above it was NOT. Let me know what you think of the final product!
> 
> Are they tangoing to Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox version of Feel Good Inc? I can neither confirm nor deny.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: typical symptoms of Hanahaki disease (coughing up blood, etc.), brief mentions of dissociation/self-harm and dance partners who don't respect personal space, brief allusions to Sarah Steel's abusive parenting
> 
> Comments and kudos always make my day! I’m on tumblr at ivyontheholodeck - come get hyped about season three with me!!


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